


Sunshine Riptide

by korynn



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Get back here Noel Fisher goddamnit, M/M, end of season seven rewrite, happy endings, season 8 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 12:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korynn/pseuds/korynn
Summary: Ian expects nothing, not after their last goodbye.For Mickey to agree to anything, to offer him a chance at redemption?He’s almost stupid enough not to take the shot. (But Mickey’s laugh spurs him on.)





	Sunshine Riptide

**Author's Note:**

> I stayed up way too late writing this monster on my phone but. 
> 
> I needed a finished fic of these kids. Of a happy ending. 
> 
> All mistakes are so so sssoooo mine. I’ll format later.
> 
> Mildly ooc because I’m a fool.  
> (How obvious is it I haven’t watched s8....)

It takes days for it to really hit, that.  
That he had those last few days with Mickey.  
That.  
That it wasn’t just his savings account that was empty now.

Fingers curled tight in sheets that are whisper soft with age, Ian lets himself cry. Gives in to the back curling sobs, the dry burn of heartache turned physical with nausea raking up his throat. Face to the pillow, knees pulled towards chest as he twisted, he’d reach for his phone, yank charger out of it as he rolled towards the wall. Forehead to painted plaster for a moment, rolling back just enough to scroll through call history.  
He fucked up.  
Random burner numbers filled his past, but the time and dates were the important ones. Which one had Mickey taken with him through that checkpoint? Which which which.  
Teeth at the inside of bottom lip, he’s going with his gut as he taps one of the later ones, letting it ring.  
It keeps ringing, which has Ian exhaling, but - but-  
“What.”  
Rattle of mattress springs groaning and Ian’s twitching, twisting in the sheets.  
“Hey Mick.”  
He hears the roar of background noise, of rattling glasses and conversation that makes him think of the Alibi and has him almost sitting up.  
“Hold on, can’t fuckin-this damn crowd. Let me take this shit outside, Jesus —“ the swears peter off into grumbles of disgruntled Milkovich. Ian feels his chest clench, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t hang up. Barely remembers to breathe.  
“Okay, what. Who’s this?”

“Hey Mick.” Take two.  
The sigh, the grumble, the click and snap of gum has Ian’s imagination rolling downhill.

“Gallagher. What, realized you forgot your favorite plaid shirt in the car or something?”

Ian laughs, curls tighter into himself and around the speaker of his phone. Fuck, his bill is going to hate him if this call turns international. Oh well.  
“Nah, no. I. Hey, do you want-“  
“I’m going to stop you right there.” Another snap of gum, smack of lips, Mickey doesn’t sound pissed. Just. Disinterested. “Ian, we’re done. I’m literally in another country to get out of your hair. My wants are none of your damn business.” Voice tries so hard to pick up an edge at the last few words, but Ian isn’t deterred.  
“I’m sorry. Would it be alright if I...well.” Ian scrubs at his jaw. “Fuck, Mickey. I’m a selfish asshole. I let fucking Felon Fiona tell me you’d light a match to my life and believed it.”

Mickey laughs, and Ian can hear the grin in the noise. “You believe your family, man. Even if they’re fucking idiots. So, what, you want to burn? What’s got you crawling back?”

Ian starfishes out, closes his eyes, free hand over his mouth as if he needs to hide his grin from the privacy of his room.  
“Mickey, let’s go to the Bahamas. Come back to Chicago married with a different name and a tan. Live Northside. Fancy penthouse and take in shitty foster kids like Carl at 12.”  
Mickey lets him ramble, which. Is normal. He can’t believe he ever accused Mickey of not having conversations with him, with how much the other man used to just simply listen.

“Jesus, fuck. Ian, you couldn’t have made this offer weeks, hell, shit, years ago? I wanted to marry you and you broke up with me. Or were you just full on pod person for that shit?” Mickey’s relaxed still though, still calm, and Ian can’t believe it. Maybe he’s not alone in feeling like any scrap of the other was enough.

“I’m so sorry Mick.”  
“Kid, don’t. I’m still on your mind, aren’t I? That’s enough. If you really want to play JimmySteve bullshit, we can do that. I’ll keep putting minutes on this phone, tell me when.”  
“You sure..?”  
“Bitch, don’t fucking. Ian. I love you. Get your ass to a beach with me, you fuck. Vitamin D, your fucking theatrics. I swear. Call me if you’re serious, but I’m giving you like.” A yell of someone’s voice, gets Mickey to pause, butcher Spanish curses and Ian’s already rolling to his feet, exchanging phone to shoulder so he can free his hands when he goes for his laptop. “Ian. A month. Maybe two, cause I know you. If I don’t see you by my birthday then this phone’s getting chucked into the gulf, alright?”  
“Alright. Yeah. Okay. I love you.”  
“Fuck off and get here already.” Click.

Ian inhales, exhales, pulls phone away from face and just stares at his phone. He forgets, sometimes, that Mickey shone brightest when not under someone’s thumb. That he was a pimp, that he ran scams and numbers and could play the role of a honest human being. What if he’s being fucked with?

Phone beeps. ‘You’re too gay to be pussyfooting. You better fucking mean it. I ain’t getting hitched to another damn hooker for you.’

Ian laughs and laughs, sends back a photo of him scrolling through flights, and. Yeah. He could do this.

—————————

Mickey doesn’t want to meet him at the airport. He doesn’t want to waste a day on lies, Ian stringing him along again like he had for the past decade. Rocking on heels and scratching at the corner of one eye as he glances at his watch again, he lets out a long exhaled fuck and gives in to shooting off his couch to collect keys and dive outside, taking his fire escape turned balcony at a dive, steps rattling as he skipped some. Fuck. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all, even though he said in their last call he was going to nap once Ian boarded.

Motorcycle spat and gurgled through the packed dirt roads of the city, and he could really relate, feeling just as full of bubbling irritated noise at being so revved up at a Big Fat Ugly Maybe. Mickey laughed at himself as he weaved between cars and found the pick up zone of the airport basically barren. 2 am on a Wednesday, Jesus. Ian had to pick the worst flight possible.

Speaking of, broad shoulders and a crooked smile caught his breath as he looked up from killing the ignition. The sudden lack of noise had his pulse throbbing between ears, and Mickey’s knees turned in, squeezing around warm leather as he thumped back into his seat. “Gallagher.” Breathed out in stark relief and joy, he was sure his face gave everything away. “C’mere.”

Ian lit up with a laugh, wide strides as he met Mickey at the curb under flickering yellowing bulbs and moonlight. “You look-“  
“Shut up.” Fingers hooked in v-neck yank Ian forward, tipping his chin up so his mouth caught the ginger’s.

Kiss went deep quick as Ian’s hands slid up neck into his nervously disheveled messy hair, framed his jaw and pulled him to his feet. Mickey’s hand twisted in cotton collar before letting go to move up, thumb over ear and scraping nail against shorn hair behind it.

One of them groans, another shifts their weight, and Ian’s shifting, throwing leg over the bike backwards to keep facing Mickey as they climb into each other’s mouths. Mickey’s laughing by now, other hand jerking from handle to hip and fuck, hello. Warmth pressed all along his front and he has flashes of Ian coked out and trying to give him a lap dance, but this is so much better.

Ian nearly takes his bottom lip in a startled bite, though, when a car honks behind him, catcalls following even as Mickey flips them off. “Shit, okay, come on. Budge around, I have something to show you.”  
Ian relents with one last peck that has both their shoulders dropping, tension cut and a laugh following.  
Fingers pluck at the fabric of his button up. “Kinda sexy.”  
“Shut up. You have your shit, yeah?”  
Ian reaches for the army green duffle still on the curb, shrugs back into it’s straps. “Show me Mexico, Mickey.” He says Mexico like an ass, white boy trying to pronounce it Mejico, and Mickey groans, tucking kickstand up and starting the bike to drown out the chuckles behind him.

Mickey weaves them to the beach, parking and catching Ian’s wrist to pull him towards the water. It’s calm, secluded, and he hopes it’ll translate to their mood too as he grabs something from one of the saddle bags. Backpack rattled suspiciously as he shouldered it, but he’s mum to Ian’s ratcheting eyebrows, only returning them with raised ones of his own.

“Come on, you owe me.”  
Ian follows and lets himself get pushed down into the sand, their bags echoing the thumps of their own bodies and Ian has a lapful of Mickey Milkovich. Tanned, glowing, smelling of something like hemp lotion if he had to guess and that has him laughing again. Even if it wasn’t for the wrinkling khaki pants or sweat-soaked palm tree and flamingo Hawaiian shirt, Mickey looked nothing like the dirty hobo of the docks or the bad drag wife of their last goodbye. He looked. Good. So fucking good, and tongue in his mouth pulled him from thinking melancholy about how it took him being gone for Mickey to truly grow.

“I brought our southside honeymoon, I need you fucking. I need you to get on me under the goddamn sunrise before we go get hitched.” Tongue and teeth follow the strawberry blonde stubble of his jaw, and Ian snorts as he reaches for Mickey’s bag, dumps out a blanket balled up around beer bottles, deli paper wrapped subs, and a fresh, sealed bottle of lube. Brows climb. Mickey bites at earlobe, rolls them to their knees and Ian breathes deep, presses his face to the other mans neck and grounds himself in the reality of having fire back in his life.

Blanket is easy to spread out and so is Mickey, actually, one bottle of beer split between the two of them as Ian focuses most of his attention on getting the other undressed. The botched prison tattoo on his chest is gone, scabbed off and only the slightest of scarring gives away that it was ever there. Maybe a few flecks of shitty Bic pen ink on collarbone, but they were like convict freckles and Ian put his mouth to them, palms spread out over Mickey’s sides as the brunette makes himself comfortable underneath the ginger.

Ian knows how to do this, years of practice, but Mickey can still feel the nervous arousal of his fiancé. Shit. They were...that’s what Ian was. Mickey’s pulling Ian up away from his chest to slot their mouths back together, get airplane stale cotton and gym shorts off Ian with greedy handfuls. “Fucking come on.” He doesn’t care that he’s eager, he always has been. Ian came to Mexico for him. Proposed with shit about having kids together while probably laying on the bed both the other older Gallagher’s have also had talks and fucks regarding marriage on. Mickey doesn’t care. He picked this boy. He’s going to keep picking him.

Ian’s chuffing laughter and yanking Mickey’s pants down, moving away to shoulder between thick thighs as he shoves the bottle of lube under Mickey’s back. Slight grumble, but Ian distracts quickly enough, with a big paw wrapped around cock and mouth on the end. Teasing licks, a hint of suction around the head, Mickey’s letting out a low noise and digging heels into blanketed sand and freckled shoulder, which Ian doesn’t mind. Only pulls away with a pop and moves his hands under legs, hooking forearms in the groove of ass meeting thigh and lifting to give a purposeful broad swipe of tongue.  
The tease of a blowjob has Mickey nearly complaining until this, until the reminder of how fucking good it feels to be ate out. “Damnit, fucker, you’re such a piece of work, get the fuck-“ his cursing is like gasps and moans, pleading tones hidden under the vulgar words. Ian knows this, and palms Mickey’s ass, spreads and licks and probes. Thumb teases the rim, smears spit around, and other hand goes for the bottle of lube. “Condom?”

Mickey blinks and gets an elbow to prop himself, and he tries to ignore the hungry look his crunched abs get, instead taking in the pretty fucking picture that was Ian Gallagher - between his legs, on a beach, with the hints of a sunrise behind him. Asking about protection. Fucking sold. Ian could’ve probably asked him for anything right now and Mickey would agree without a single raised brow. Which was saying a lot.  
“You’ve been it for years. I didn’t even bother, seeing as we’re about to be shackled.” A squint of blue eyes, Mickey reaches with the hand not holding him up to Ian’s hair, gives it a good yank. “That means no fucking around, the piece of paper means shit this time.” Ian blinks. Mickey sighs, hips twitching at how hot that simple amused smirk gets him. “No goddamn condom, fuck. Let’s go already.” Jab of heel in ribs for emphasis.

Ian just laughs and cracks open the lube, covering fingers and shifting to get front row show of Mickey opening up for him, relaxed sighs and he’d last watching until three fingers, when which Mickey started to twist onto them and yank at his hair again. Moving up, beer emptied with a laugh out of Mickey as he wiped the mess off Ian’s chin before they kissed, hips shifted and fingers were replaced with the slow press of cock.  
It’s slow for them, and shit they really shouldn’t be dragging this out on a beach, but. Ian doesn’t know it’s a private one, that Mickey was able to bribe the time sharing rich old biddies into a night of seclusion by mentioning his husband and renewed vows, exaggerating a bit but. They loved a good romantic story, and Mickey loved free shit.  
So knowing he didn’t have to claw at Ian’s back to speed things along, or that they’d be found by anyone...it had him arching his back instead, letting himself give in to the pleasure of it. Take his damn time for once; slow rolls of hips as they adjusted until pressure turned into more, until Ian found where he needed to angle to get Mickey’s groans going breathless. “Fucking hell, Ian.” Moans like gravel spurred the younger man on, and shit, fuck. Mickey can’t take it, shoves and pushes until Ian lets him roll them over, and they’re kissing as Mickey’s hips swivel, muffling his gasps while he pushes a hand between them.  
Striping his own cock is easy enough, and Ian has a hand around his own fist to tighten the grip, another feeling the flex of his bicep. He’s grateful for the lack of grip on his hips, it allows him to stutter them as he comes between them. Allows him to squeeze knees and hold himself still as he feels Ian twitch underneath him.

The sex could be more graphic, more intense, but there’s a soft filter to it, in the colors of blue melting orange, fitting. Mickey doesn’t. His mind doesn’t go towards poetry and comparing them to nature often, but as he wipes thumbs over the puddled sweat in Ian’s neck and shoulders, lets his gaze sweep over flushed smiling features, he accepts that love makes things change. That this change happened years ago, when he couldn’t choke out a “don’t go”, but it’s taken this long to settle over them both.

He’s fine with that.

“We’re free, Ian.”

Ian hums, eyes fluttering and brain so visibly still rebooting from orgasm, and Mickey chuckles, pecks kisses over cheekbones and peels himself up and off. “First one to the water picks our last name. Bitch.” Nipple pinch, bite at bottom lip, Mickey ignores the protest of his body at standing to watch Ian’s expression for one, three, five seconds, then running.

Knowing he’ll be followed.

Knowing he’s won.


End file.
